David Gemmell: Morningstar

‘Forgive me, bard, but when you perform in taverns is that not for personal gain?’

‘Yes, of course. But that is honest work. To cheat a man requires… deceit. Magick cannot exist in such circumstances.’

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added several small sticks to the fire. ‘What of the Dark Magickers?’ he asked. ‘They summon demons and kill by witchery. Why does their magick not leave them?’

‘Shh,’ I said, alarmed. ‘It is not wise to speak of such as they.’ Hastily I made the sign of the Protective Horn and whispered a spell of Undoing. ‘They make pacts with… unclean powers. They sell their souls, and their power comes from the blood of innocents. It is not magick, but sorcery.’

‘What is the difference?’

‘I could not possibly explain it to you. My talents are from within and will harm no one. Indeed they could not cause pain. They are illusions. I could make a knife and thrust it into your heart. You would feel nothing, and no harm would come to you. But if… one of them were to do the same, your heart would be filled with worms and you would die horribly.’

‘So,’ he said, ‘you will not play the shell game? Well, what else can you do?’

‘I play the harp.’

‘Yes, I heard that. Very… soulful. Sadly, bard, I think you are going to starve to death. Gods, it is cold!’ Adding more fuel to the fire, he once more held out his hands to the flames.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘I have forgotten my manners.’ Lifting my right hand I pointed at him and spoke the words of minor enchantment that warmed the air within his clothes.

‘Now that is a talent!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hate the cold. How long will the spell last?’

‘Until I fall asleep.’

‘Then stay awake for a few hours,’ he ordered me. ‘If I wake up cold I’ll cut your throat. And I mean that! But if I sleep warm I’ll treat you to a fine breakfast. Is it a bargain?’

‘A fine bargain,’ I told him, but he was immune to sarcasm.

‘Good,’ he said, and without another word stretched himself out on the ground beside the fire and closed his eyes.

I leaned back against the broad trunk of an oak tree and watched the sleeping man, my thoughts varied but all centred on Jarek Mace. My life as a bard and a storyteller had been filled with tales of men who looked like Jarek, tall and spectacularly handsome, confident and deadly in battle. It had almost become second nature in me to believe that a man who looked like him must be a hero. Part of me still wanted… needed… to believe it. Yet he had spoken with such lack of care about the poor dead woman back in Ziraccu. I did not know her, yet I could feel her grief as she tied the noose around her neck. I tried to tell myself that he did care, that he felt some sense of shame but was hiding it from me. But I did not believe it then, and I do not believe it now.

He had been drawn to my fire by the sound of the harp, but he had come to rob a lone traveller. And had I been carrying a coin I don’t doubt he would have taken it and left me, throat slit, on the snow of the forest floor.

Now he lay still, his sleep dreamless, and I, frightened of his threat, remained awake, my spell keeping him warm.

I thought back to our conversation, and realized that I had seen yet another Jarek Mace. His speech patterns were subtly altered. In Ziraccu he had sounded — for the most part — like an Angostin, except in those moments when anger flared and his voice had lost its cultured edge. Now, in these woods his speech carried the slight burr of the Highlander. I wondered if he even realized it. Or did he, like the chameleon, merely adjust his persona to suit his surroundings?

A badger moved warily across the hollow, snuffling at the snow. She was followed by three cubs, the last of whom approached the sleeping man. I created a small globe of white light that danced before the cub’s eyes, then popped! The cubs scampered away and the mother cast me a look that I took to be admonishment. Then she too disappeared into the bleak undergrowth.

I was hungry again — and growing cold. Two spells of Warming were hard to maintain. Banking up the fire, I moved closer to the flames.

My father’s castle on the south coast would be warm, with heavy velvet curtains against the narrow windows, huge log-fires burning in the many hearths. There would be wine and spirits, hot meats and pastries.

Ah, but I forget, ghost! You do not yet know me, save as the threadbare bard. I was the youngest of three sons born to the second wife of the Angostin count, Aubertain of WestLea. Yes, an Angostin. Neither proud nor ashamed of it, to be sure. My eldest brother, Ranuld, went to live across the sea, to fight in foreign wars. The second, Braife, stayed at home to manage the estates, while I was to have entered the church. But I was not ready to wear the monk’s habit, to spend my life on my knees worshipping a God whose existence I doubted. I ran away from the monastery and apprenticed myself to a magicker named Cataplas. He had a twisted back that gave him constant pain, but he performed the Dragon’s Egg like no one before or since.

That then was me, Owen Odell, an Angostin bard who in that dread winter was unable to make a living and who was sitting against a tree, growing colder by the moment, while his powers were being expended on a heartless killer who slept by his fire.

I was not a happy man as I sat there, hugging my knees, my thin, stolen blanket wrapped tight around my bony frame.

An owl hooted in the branches above me and Jarek stirred but did not wake. It was very peaceful there, I recall, beneath the bright stars.

Towards dawn Jarek awoke, yawned and stretched. ‘Best sleep I’ve had in weeks,’ he announced. Rolling to his feet, he gathered his bow and quiver and set off without a word of thanks for my efforts. My power had faded several hours before and I had barely managed to keep Mace warm, while I was almost blue with cold. With shivering hands I threw the last small sticks on the fire and held my numbed fingers above the tiny flames.

The morning sky was dark with snow-clouds, but the temperature was rising. Standing, I stamped my feet several times, trying to force the blood through to the frontiers of my toes.

Walking deeper into the forest, I began to gather more fuel. The weight of the recent snow had snapped many branches and the smaller of these I collected in my arms and carried to my campsite, returning for larger sections which I dragged through the snow. The work was arduous and I soon tired. But at least I was warmer now, save for my hands. The tips of my fingers had swelled against my nails and they throbbed painfully.

But all my discomfort was forgotten when the three men emerged from the forest to approach my fire.

There are times when the eyes see far more than the mind will acknowledge, when the heart will beat faster and panic begins at the root of the stomach. This was such a time. I looked up and saw the three and my mouth was dry. Yet there was nothing instantly threatening about them. They looked like foresters, dressed in homespun wool, with leather jerkins and boots of soft hide laced at the front with leather thongs. Each of them carried a bow, but they were also armed with daggers and short swords. I pushed myself to my feet, sure in my heart that I faced great peril.

‘Welcome to my fire,’ I said, proud that my voice remained steady. No one spoke, but they spread out around me, their eyes cold, faces grim. They seemed to me then like wolves, lean and merciless. The first of them, a tall man, looped his bow over his shoulder and knelt beside the fire, extending his hands to the flames.

‘You are a bard?’ he said, not looking at me.

‘I am, sir.’